A Christmas Caryl Redux
by Yearning Flush
Summary: Can a chorus of voices from Daryl's past finally convince him that Carol is a risk he needs to to take? / The Woodbury refugees were timid. They would be inside, singing carols and hanging stockings or whatever the hell people had decided was the merriest way to distract yourself from the dozens of animated corpses shuffling around...
1. Preface

Preface

So here, I need to explain myself. First and foremost, this is all Shipperwolf's fault.

"But why?!" I hear you asking, "Shipperwolf is a pillar of the community!"

Indeed. To explain I'll need you to come back with me to October, when apparently my partner in shipping crime JodiMelville's OTP's fandom (Chlex) errupts into a frenzy of Holiday excitement:

"You should write Caryl Christmas fluff!" She prodded me.

"I don't think my fandom does Christmas…" I sniffed, loftily.

"We're much too grim for all of that. It's a zombie apocolypse, Jodi. People are dying!"

"Oh really?" She replied, followed up seconds later by a link to this fic:

A Christmas Caryl - By: ShazzyZhang

Now I'm sure when normal people read this fic they squee delightedly at the prospects of Carol and Daryl having holiday sexy times and have done with it. And I did do a bit of that, sure. But mostly my evil brain just started to froth with maniacal inspiration at the idea of haunting Daryl into Caryl with the ghosts of some of my favorite dead characters! YES!

So that's what this is. And believe you me it was damn hard to stay in the spirit after the car crash that was Season 4! I had to shelve the damn thing for months, but a promise is a promise…

Anyway, ShazzyZhang blames her fic on Shipperwolf, so I figure I can too. You should read it if you haven't already, because my fic picks up right where hers left off, and two yeses make a HELL YES!


	2. 1 - Dixon's Ghost

Chapter 1 – Dixon's Ghost

Daryl was considering throwing another log into the fire pit, but he couldn't really justify the excess. Another log burned meant another log to replenish tomorrow, and he was tired. It was getting late, and dark. Nobody with any sense wandered around outside after dark anymore. The Woodbury refugees were timid. They would be inside, singing carols and hanging stockings or whatever the hell people had decided was the merriest way to distract yourself from the dozens of animated corpses shuffling around the perimeter of whichever cozy cellblock you called 'home'.

He, on the other hand, would happily take his risks in stride; eyes wide open over being blinded by Christmas cheer. He could relax out here on his own without a throng of groupies orbiting around him. Sometimes he felt as likely to be ripped to shreds here as he did beyond the prison gate. It rubbed him wrong, the way they all vied for his attention. All because he'd mastered something that not only would they not have bothered with before, but none the able-bodied ones seemed particularly interested in learning even now.

And the presents – Christ the presents! He didn't think he'd ever live down the mortification of having a red-wrapped box thrust into his hands and being urged to, 'Open it now!', only to reluctantly pull out a stuffed squirrel holding a heart that proclaimed, "I'm NUTS for you."

Everyone that knew about Daryl - _really_ knew about Daryl - had had a good laugh at that. It had taken him a moment or two to remember his manners and offer the woman a smile, or what he'd intended to be a smile – he'd been informed later by Carol that it had actually been a tight-lipped grimace. He still wasn't convinced she hadn't been behind the whole thing somehow. He'd tossed the monstrosity into this very fire pit not long after.

Even the memory of it made him scowl. At least with the walkers nobody was gonna get on your case about their damn _feelings_. He snatched up a long stick to poke at the dying embers of the fire. Only moments ago they were ebbing, all but ready to expire. Now, as he peered down at them confused they began to brighten, blazing angry and red like they were being stoked, except…they weren't. He was still staring stupidly into them, trying to comprehend what he was witnessing, when a sudden wind gusted him full in the face. It came howling out of nowhere with enough force and fury, to send him tumbling backwards off the log he'd been resting on.

"The fuck?" he muttered, bewildered. He sat up, one forearm raised in a futile attempt to shield his eyes as he was pelted with fragments of cinder and ash through the smoke.

"Christ on a crutch!" he choked out between coughs, fanning the lingering cloud away from his face. The wind died as abruptly as it came on. He wrestled himself back upright and was dusting the fine layer of soot away when he picked out the shape of a man sitting across the fire through the wasted blur of his vision.

Daryl's heart leapt into his chest. His entire body tensed. His hand dropped to the hunting knife sheathed on his belt.

"Who's there?" he croaked, throat burning from the smoke he'd breathed in.

"Happy Holidays, little brother." The shadow rasped.

"…Merle?" Daryl ventured uncertainly. He quickly looked back towards the prison to see if there was anyone else nearby. There wasn't, thankfully. They were alone.

"It's just you and me." Merle informed him.

Daryl looked from the prison yard to Merle, and back again a few times, no longer certain which senses could be trusted. Inside he was struggling to keep the terror he was feeling from broadcasting all over his face while he slowly drew his knife. He couldn't say for sure what he was seeing - Merle's corpse, his ghost, or a mad hallucination of Daryl's own devising – but whatever it was, he was determined not to cower.

"Would you sit your ass down and relax? Quit actin' like a damn fool…" Merle rumbled impatiently, "I ain't got all night for you to change your panties and fix your skirt."

Daryl reluctantly approached the log in front of him and sat down across from the blurry silhouette in front of him. He rubbed at his stinging eyes and squinted until piece by piece the features of his dead brother began to fill into the faintly translucent shade before him. Mercifully his face wasn't the pulpy void Daryl's hunting knife had left it upon their last encounter, but it wasn't as healthy as it had been when Daryl last saw him alive, either. The hollows under his eyes and the lesions and sores on his face took him back to a time he wouldn't have dared scatter the pale blue shards of methamphetamine stashed in Merle's saddlebags over the blacktop as he had months ago.

Daryl watched in shock as Merle produced a flask and took a long swig from it.

"This ain't real." Daryl declared finally. Then, pointed his knife at the figure across the fire, "**You** ain't real. The Governor killed you."

"Yeah, that's right." Merle responded with a sniff, "I'm just a figment of your damn imagination. The real Merle's off burnin' in hell somewhere." Another swallow. "Feel better?"

Daryl shook his head faintly, lips drawn tight in a grimace of distaste. No way no how was this Merle, but on the off chance it was… that sure was a Merle thing to say.

"'_The Governor killed you'_" Merle echoed, sardonically, "The hell he did! That was _me_, I made that choice. Sacrificed myself for you and those people you think so much of. Merle Dixon - went out like a god damned hero! How 'bout that?"

"Yeah, you did." Daryl agreed softly, the adrenaline in his system had thinned enough for him to feel the first flicker of pain at the apparition of his recently dead brother.

"Coulda ended better." He allowed. The two fell into an awkward silence. Merle shuddered then, and clutched his arms around himself, rubbing anxiously at his own skin.

"Anyway, it wasn't enough." he mused, "Got myself stuck here. Dead… a ghost, or whatever the hell you want to call it. Came here warn you while you still got time. Don't you do it, Daryl. Don't you go bein' like me."

"The hell are you talkin' about? What happened to you?" Daryl asked. He leaned in for a closer look, noticing for the first time a myriad of festering track marks running up and down Merle's arms and hands, even a few on his neck.

"Me. I happened to me. I built up a debt in life, Brother. Let a lot of people down. People who loved me… needed me. I'm payin' for it now. There's never any high. Just the _need_."

Daryl's brow furrowed as he noticed Merle's voice begin to quake with emotion in a way that it never, ever would have in life.

"Everything I ever told you was wrong, Daryl. You gotta straighten up and fly right for real. You can. I know you can. You were **always** better than me."

Daryl shifted uncomfortably for a long silent moment while he tried to process Merle's meaning, "I ain't hurtin' nobody. I do a hell of a lot for these people. Keep 'em fed, keep 'em safe…"

Suddenly agitated Merle waved his hand in dismissal, "Surviving. That's all you're doing is surviving. You got more than that in you. You know, there's a fine lady in that prison that thinks the _world_ of you?"

Daryl flinched, but playing dumb was old tricks when it came to Merle "What, Carol?"

Merle pinned him down with his eyes, waiting expectantly, and in a moment of coarse inspiration he blurted out, "Don't worry, Bro. You know I'm hittin' that."

And in a moment of pure irony: the first; and perhaps only he would ever experience, Daryl found himself on the receiving end of a look full of supercilious moral outrage from his own racist, sexist, drug addicted; piece-of-shit brother.

"You know, there were reasons I died alone. Plenty of reasons. Good reasons. I gave up on myself, so I couldn't see it. Wouldn't have believed it if you'd told me, but I didn't have to. You don't either. Man, I don't want this for you. You gotta start investing in people, and letting them invest in you for more than a cut of game meat."

"I invested in you." Daryl pointed out dourly.

Merle threw his hands up in defeat.

"Well ain't that a fine thing. I come back from the goddamn grave to try and help you out, and you just sittin' over there stubborn as a god damned mule with your head up your ass. Boy, if that don't beat all."

"Ya done?" Daryl asked, patience stretched thin.

"No, I ain't done. I ain't anywhere near done!" Merle shouted, thrusting his arms over the fire between them.

Daryl opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on his lips as he saw the flames pass harmlessly through the spectral flesh. It was a show. Only a show, meant to illuminate the septicity coursing throughout his ruined veins while the fire, undeterred, licked hungrily at the night sky.

"I'll be walking this world for God knows how long before I'll be done, trying to find a way to make up for all the times I let this come before everyone that mattered to me. Now that's an evil I done, and so I recon it's gotta be paid, but I can't help but wonder. If it hadn't been drugs - hadn't been nothin' but my own foolish pride I let come between me and mine- would that really have been any better?"

Merle stood up then, and turned to walk away.

"You just think about that."

Daryl held his tongue, unable to think what else to say. Watching silently as Merle shuffled away from him and towards the bowing fence and the ever growing mass of undead behind it. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the dead begin passing through it, but he quickly understood it wasn't _those_ dead. They were the other kind of dead. The Merle kind of dead. Disembodied spirits with troubled faces, burdened by the weight of everything unfinished in their lives. Some of them were, in fact, familiar to him from long days on guard duty watching their bodies press themselves tirelessly against the chain link barricade. Some of them weren't in the crowd out there at all. He knew, because he could remember driving crow bars and fence posts into their skulls and hauling them away himself. And yet – in this sense – they were all still here, moving in around him. An unwanted reminder that every _thing_ beyond that wall had been a person. People with promises they'd meant to keep. People they'd meant to save. Mistakes they'd meant to fix.

People they'd meant to keep.

Promises they'd meant to fix.


	3. 2 - The First of the Three Spirits

When Daryl awoke, he was lying in the dirt beside a low burning fire. His poncho was wrapped loosely around him, but it wasn't enough to ward off the cold seeping into him from the ground below.

He scrabbled gracelessly to sit up and looked around warily. Carl was sitting nonchalantly on one of the logs, looking over him. He'd gotten his hands on a rifle somewhere. He'd positioned it carefully across his lap, and his slender fingers grasped it tighter as he took in Daryl's violent thrashing. Daryl held up a hand to still him, silent assurance that he was still himself. Carl's head dipped, and he was quick to turn his hooded gaze back to the fire.

He was sitting almost exactly where Merle had been in his dream. He had been dreaming, of course. Dead people don't come back to sit with you beside the fire and criticize the state of your love life. Well, that's a lie. Dead people come back all the time – just not Merle.

Daryl groaned. He raked his fingers though his overgrown hair and scrubbed at his face, impatient to shake off the otherworldly fog he still felt muting his senses. Then he turned to face Carl.

"The hell you doing out here?"

Carl's eyes cut back over to Daryl, indignant, "Looking out for you."

Daryl frowned pensively, "How long I been out?"

"Dunno. Found you out here, lying in the dirt. Thought you might be dead, so I stayed close, in case…"

He trailed off, reluctant to verbalize what both of them were thinking.

"I built a fire so we wouldn't freeze our asses off."

The longer Daryl listened silently the more Carl struggled with putting words together until he simply gave up, hastily adding, "I'm glad you're not."

Daryl grunted as he finished picking himself up off the ground and slapped and fine cloud of dirt off his worn-out jeans. He felt uncertain, and vulnerable. Two feelings that never sat well. And the worst part was that he still didn't have any idea why it had happened. Falling asleep out in the open like that should have been a death sentence.

"Prob'ly outta be getting' back. Your dad finds out you're missing he'll have both our hides."

He nodded at the rifle, "Leave that with me."

Carl evaluated Daryl openly. His indifference to authority had been steadily building, but as of yet Daryl has been one of the few adults Carl hadn't locked horns with. The moments built up between them and Daryl began to wonder if that wasn't about to change. But then Carl gave Daryl a terse nod, and the spell was broken. He handed the rifle to the older man, and was turning to leave when Daryl suddenly remembered.

"Hey, you seen Carol?"

"She's inside. I can get her for you."

"Nah, forget it. I'll talk to her later."

Carl lingered, "They're just in there wasting a bunch of time talking about what to do for Christmas. It's stupid, right?"

"Yeah" Daryl agreed distractedly, not even aware that he was hammering a nail in until the damage was done. Carl's face faltered, and for a fleeting moment he looked his age again. Just a kid, all tore up inside. He recovered fast, though. Faster than Daryl would have thought was possible. He followed up Daryl's decline with a shrug, and broke out in an easy sprint towards the cell blocks.

Daryl shook his head at the effortlessness of that youthful vigor. He himself was feeling every moment of his time spent sleeping on the cold ground, right down to his bones. He only lingered long enough to shovel enough dirt to extinguish the fire before lumbering off in the direction of the watchtower he had laid claim to.

He hadn't missed her. That, along with boost the shoveling had given his circulation had him feeling better already. And the more he felt like himself, the more ridiculous his dream became. Merle, back from the dead, trying to guilt him into making an honest woman of Carol.

It was all her teasing that had wound him up with all of this "Christmas Carol" bullshit, anyway. Seemed fitting seeing her again to get his mind off it. Seeing her, touching her, tasting her… a warm pressure was building in his groin at the memory of her breathy whisper in his ear. Bold promises.

He had half a mind to take her to task about setting people up for nightmares, but that would mean admitting that he'd actually had one. He'd have to figure out something else. There was a lot a body could get across once it got you pinned on a lousy prison mattress laid over concrete. Then, maybe once he'd had his say, he'd happily roll over and let her grind them both to completion so he could admire the rise and fall of her supple body in the moonlight. See if she felt like making fun of him then.

He sighed impatiently, squirming as his hard-on he'd unwittingly worked himself up to pressed painfully against his pants. He needed to derail this train of thought, or he wasn't going to be able to hold out.

"_Do somethin' for your stayin' power_…" his subconscious chewed at him traitorously. But even as worked up as he was, something was nagging at him. A small pressure leak sabotaging his building libido. Something about the things Merle had said to him in his dream.

He'd made out like it was so terrible, this casual arrangement he and Carol had wordlessly fallen into. It wasn't like he didn't care. He cared – a lot. Too much, he realized suddenly. That's why this whole thing smacked of punishment. He shouldn't love her. He should have been stronger and never given into those impulses in the first place. But that's how this whole mess got started. Because who couldn't love her? Who could lay with her, across from those beguiling blue eyes in that sweet, sad face and not want to gather her up, kiss away her hurts, and promise her _anything_?

He wouldn't, of course, because that would be a lie. Nobody could make promises like that in a world like this, not even him. No. The best he could do for her was staying strong, cold, unrelenting. Invincible.

He felt the faint vibration of footfalls on the steel grating outside his door. That would be her now, and not a damn moment too soon. He needed to get out of his head and get lost in the soft warmth of her curves. He eagerly watched the handle of the door turn and swing open.

The only thing that fell faster than the greeting on his lips was the excitement he'd been barely containing below the belt.

It wasn't Carol that stepped into the tower, but it wasn't entirely _not_ Carol either. Innocence restored. Perfect. Everything from the Cherokee roses woven through her silken honey blonde bob to her simple white dress was bathed in a brilliant golden light from some unknowable internal source. Her china blue eyes stared up at him with understanding surpassing any 12 year olds. A shrewd intelligence, strikingly reminiscent of her mother.

_I'm dreaming again. How am I dreaming again? I don't even remember going to sleep! This isn't real. Sophia is dead. Why is this happening? Is this my punishment? My punishment for not being quick enough. My punishment for letting her go._

"Don't, Daryl. Please…don't be sad?"

Daryl was silent for what felt like an eternity, unable to form words. Sophia waited patiently while he recovered enough to splutter, "What is this?"

"Merle warned you three spirits would be calling on you tonight, yes? …No?" She sighed with gentle exasperation, "That was his entire function. That man is so…never mind. It's not important. There's a lot you need to see, and very little time in which to see it. You need to come with me now."

"You're a ghost?"

"The ghost…of Christmas Past."

"You're not Sophia."

"Not strictly, no. I seemed appropriate to come as her, though."

"How come?"

Sophia's smile grew wider, "She inspired you, like I mean to. You were at your absolute best when you chose to champion her. Never better."

Daryl wondered if he'd be such a big damn hero if she knew the kind of night he'd be planning for before she'd showed up.

"You aren't ready." She said, sympathetically. It wasn't a question, "It seems awful to rush you, but the truth is there's not a lot of time left. Not for any of us."

She extended her hand.

Daryl hesitated, "I need my crossbow."

She shook her head emphatically, "You won't. Not where we're going. I promise. Come on."

He side-eyed her, unconvinced, but unsure of how to say it. For a time, however brief, finding Sophia had become his religion. It seemed somehow sacrilegious to doubt her now. He surrendered his hand. Felt her close her smaller one around it, and saw the satisfaction in her smile before everything blanked out in a flash of white and vertigo set in. He was blindly surging forward.

"Come on! Keep up!"

Inexplicably, he was running through a field left fallow, wild with untamed growth alongside a wolf who looked for all the world to be exactly the same proportions as him. It didn't appear to matter that state of confusion his mind was in. This body didn't need him. It knew running like it knew breathing. Thousands upon thousands of years of instinctual conditioning regulated it.

"I'm a wolf…" he didn't so much say as think.

"We have a lot of ground to cover" she said, as if that explained it all away.

"And anyway, it suits you."

Daryl was too overwhelmed with the sensory overload to reply. The raucous calls of mockingbirds and wood thrush hiding in the scrub cedar were all around him. And everything smelled like something. From the fallen leaves disintegrating in musty dirt beneath his paws to the aromatic patches of milkweed and wild bergamot. Even the cold had a distinct smell to his canine nose, and all of the sounds and smells were coming together to evoke the memory of a place he hadn't been in years.

"We're almost there." Sophia's voice intruded in his head.

Daryl felt sick to his stomach. They had passed a handful of familiar farmhouses now, and they had all been well-manicured and comforting to look upon. Just the kind of idealistic country contentment that Hershel's farm had been. But Daryl knew what was coming. It was just up ahead. His daddy's house. Daryl knew it would be more than dormant. Decaying into ruin. The land hadn't been worked in years. Some of the fields lay barren while unkempt thickets of weeks choked the others, leeching whatever nourishment the soil might have once had to offer.

Daryl didn't know his Daddy when he'd lived here. They'd locked him up before Daryl was old enough to remember. He'd meet him later. After they'd lost the house. He'd start to learn about why Merle stalked the house way he did wound tight with silent tension.

Daryl balked as they approached the house, but Sophia trotted confidently up the crooked, sagging porch and disappeared into the ugly weather beaten door. It took Daryl a few minutes to overcome the expectancy that when he took that solid slab of wood full in the face it would smash his nose in. Of course, it didn't. When he launched himself into it he floated through effortlessly, to find himself in the entryway leading up to the living room of his childhood home. Sophia was a girl again, half his size so he reasoned he must be himself again too.

A brittle, neglected pine tree leaned in the corner. It was done up cheaply with strings of popcorn, paper cutout ornaments, and red bows his mother had tied by hand from spools of ribbon she'd picked out of a discount bin at the department store in town.

She was passed out, dead asleep in the living room couch. An open shoebox rested on the coffee table in front of her, spilling over with mementoes and hand scrawled letters. Her hand was clamped around an empty bottle of wine which she'd drawn up to her chest in her sleep. It rose and sank precariously with each shallow breath. Daryl had been the first to creep down when the first slivers of dawn had crept through his bedroom window. Under the tree where Daryl had counted two presents before he went to bed, there were now four. Two presents for each boy, one from 'Mama and Daddy', the other from Santa.

When Merle came down, he'd ignored Daryl sitting obediently across the coffee table from their mama, waiting for her to wake up. Wordlessly, and without hesitation he'd snatched his two packages from under the tree and tore away the brightly colored paper to reveal a blue flannel shirt and a collection Zane Grey books.

"Would ya look at that. Just what I never wanted." He muttered scornfully, dumping his gifts, paper and all into a nearby chair.

"Merry Christmas, Dumbass." He called after him as he passed on his way to the front door.

Daryl watched him leave, then turned to look at his Mama again. She hadn't stirred. He wandered over to the Christmas tree and picked up the two remaining packages. He had already evaluated the one from Mama and Daddy enough to know it was clothing. Boring. The newest arrival had promise. He padded back to the coffee table and knelt next to his mother.

"Mom." He called to her, gently. Then pushed at her tentatively when she didn't answer, "Mama? Are you gonna get up for Christmas?"

"Soon baby." Her voice was slurred with sleep, "I'll be up soon. Let Mama rest just a little while."

Daryl looked from her, to the door Merle had just disappeared through, then back to her. He let out a sigh of resignation, and guiltily began peeling back the taped edges of the mysterious gift from Santa. He pushed back the edges to reveal a plastic action figure. You could tell he was a cheap one, because he didn't have a name. 'Crossbow Man', the box announced in bold red print. He was good, though. A tough looking guy with a black goatee and an eagle on the back of his black motorcycle jacket.

Daryl stared at him intently for a good long while, taking in all of the details to be considered when he worked up a backstory for the stranger they called Crossbow Man.

He laid the other box earnestly on the table in front of his mother. They could still open that one together. Then he went over to the chair and picked up the three pack of vibrantly colored hardback books Merle had dropped there and packed the whole awkward armload upstairs to his bedroom.

"No wonder you're so comfortable flying solo. You got an early start." Sophia's voice broke into his thoughts.

Adult Daryl was at a loss for anything to say. He was already somewhere else, having drifted from the dull, familiar sadness for the boy he barely remembered being. Instead he was thinking on Carl Grimes, waiting steadfast for him to wake beside the fire. Remembering the way his face had fallen for just a moment before it had hardened. He should have said something.

"Let's keep moving." Sophia offered, and Daryl was relieved to leave this place in the dust again. Despite it having been Christmas morning inside the Dixon household it was still pitch black outside. Just like before, passing through the door made them wolves, and the two of them ran briskly clear of the fields. Ran until they'd left all of civilization behind and the forest unfolded all around them. Gnarled black branches of the trees drew in menacingly around them like talons.

"Where are we going?" Daryl finally asked.

"We're almost there."

"Almost where? There ain't nothin' out here. This is the middle of nowhere." Daryl complained.

Sophia didn't answer. She just shifted them back to their human forms and pointed at the base of a nearby tree. A young Daryl sat with his back against it, clutching his knees. He'd been crying, and that detail took Daryl by surprise. He hadn't remembered it like that. Convinced himself somehow that he'd been as unaffected by being lost on his own in the woods as he'd wanted to be that the time.

But there there it was. Spelled out plain as day in the long, pink stripes where tears had cut through the heavy layer of dirt. Terror-stricken eyes looked through him, out in to the woods for somebody corporeal – anybody – to come and find him.

"What are you doing out here, Daryl?" Sophia asked carefully, "It's Christmas Eve."

"I'm lost." Daryl explained quietly.

"I know." Sophia whispered empathetically. He felt her hand seek out his and grip it tightly.

"You told this story to Andrea, but you never mentioned it was the holiday break."

"Wasn't the point."

"What was the point?" She asked.

Daryl sighed, feeling almost as exhausted as his younger self looked.

"The point was… things can turn out okay."

"You don't live like someone that believes that." She mused, trotting off ahead of him, apparently already bound for their next destination.

And just like that, Daryl didn't want to go with her. Couldn't remember why'd he'd agreed to come in the first place. His paws didn't feel light like they had before. He knew his life contained an endless supply of disappointing Christmases. He'd lived all of them once already, and didn't think much of going through it all over again. He veered sharply and split off on his own.

The cold wind was rustling through his coat, and he felt freer than ever, racing at speeds no human being had ever imagined until right now. He ran without care or destination, like you could before the undead started closing in. And he didn't slow down until he saw a flicker of bright orange on the horizon, growing closer.

His ears flicked, picking up the sounds of music and laughter in that direction. When he cautiously trotted towards it he came upon an unruly crowd of revelers, celebrating around a spectacular bonfire. It raged at least fifteen feet into the night sky, consuming everything from scrap wood to abandoned furniture and tires.

Metal covers of Christmas music blared from an elaborate sound system, more impressive and possibly more expensive than the back of the truck that hauled it. The longer he watched the drinking, and joking the more familiar faces he picked out of the crowd. Then he saw Merle, emphatically gesturing towards his mistletoe belt buckle, and he knew what was coming.

"Thought I'd lost you." He doubted it was true. He knew if he turned around he'd see Sophia, so he didn't. He ignored her and resigned himself to watch the events unfold.

There was a rippling in the crowd. The tone of the background noise was transforming. Underneath the sounds of music and laughter an edge of hostility was rising. He scanned the crowd until he saw his own back, straight and tense at the eye of the storm. He and another man were right up in each other's faces, shouting. The people around them were beginning to take interest, cheering them on. The other man was drawing energy from the cacophony, but not Daryl. Didn't need them. Didn't need anyone. His confidence never wavered.

"Why is he angry?" Sophia asked conversationally.

"He just lost a bet, and now he doesn't want to pay up."

"What was the bet?"

"He started runnin' his mouth about how his Vangard rifle is the most accurate weapon there is, so we had ourselves a little shooting competition. Winner takes the loser's piece."

The other man made to hand over the rifle. When Daryl reached out his hand to accept it, the other man quickly jerked it back and cracked Daryl in the face with the butt of the gun. The air crackled and expanded with gasps and whooping. Not approval or disapproval, exactly. Just an unaffiliated thirst for stimulation from the onlookers.

Daryl lunged forward and latched onto the gun's stock in one hand and the barrel with the other and yanked insistently.

"No, no, STOP!" a voice broke out from the crowd as a small brunette girl broke free of the crowd and pushed between the two men, unafraid as their struggle pitched her back and forth pell mell between them.

"Stop it!" she repeated, breathlessly, looking back and forth between the two of them sternly. The two men reluctantly stopped struggling, but neither released their hold on the gun. Daryl's hateful glare bored into the other man, who scoffed outwardly, but couldn't maintain eye contact. He started looking over the crowd for his supporters.

"The two of you are fixin' to get somebody killed. Is that the kind of news either of you wants to give your Mama on Christmas morning? Now put the gun down and stop acting like a couple of damn fools."

Daryl reluctantly let go of the gun and sneered, "Keep your shitty gun, faggot."

The other man smirked unrepentantly and sauntered away, clearly pleased with this outcome.

Daryl's temple flared again at the sight of it, and he moved to head him off, but the small brunette placed a light hand on his chest and it was mow her over or give up.

"Easy." She said softly, "Let it go… let me patch you up."

He followed her haltingly. Allowed her to lead through the dispersing crowd to the haphazard cluster of cars in the pasture where everyone had parked. She stopped alongside a sorry looking old beater, and he watched her disappear into the open door and pull out a pair of the blue cotton drawstring pants people wear in hospitals. She picked a handful of things from the pockets, then dropped the pants back inside the car.

"I'm interning at the hospital." She explained, suddenly self-conscious as she tore open one of the little foil packets and slid a small square of damp cotton from it.

"I- can I…?" She stammered awkwardly, gesturing towards him ineffectually. Daryl just looked at her, blankly, unsure just what she was asking.

"Here." She said, apparently having given up on communication. She stepped in and anchored his face by the jaw lightly with her left hand while she dabbed at the cut above his eyebrow with her right. First it was cold. Then it stung, terribly. Daryl flinched, breathing in a sharp hiss of surprise.

"Yeah, sorry…hurts." She murmured in a tone that while not unsympathetic, also sounded slightly matter-of-fact.

He watched her with interest as she used the edge of the quickly drying cotton to spread opaque jelly she'd squeezed from another of her little foil packet over the cut, then smoothed a band aid over the whole production.

"Good news is it doesn't look like you need stitches." She tried, looking into his eyes for the first time through a dark fringe of lashes, then quickly back down to her hands. She wadded up the leftover packaging and tossed it into a little trash bag hanging from her gear shift.

She looked bemused that Daryl still hadn't spoken.

"I'm sorry about your gun." She offered, sincerely.

"Don't matter."

"The crossbow's cooler anyway." She ventured, biting her lip.

Daryl scoffed gently, but his eyes warmed over. The tight line of his mouth gave over to a tiny smirk.

"I'm kind of a bow girl." She continued. She bent into the car one last time and he heard the latch to the trunk pop. She swung the door closed gestured for him to follow her as she moved around to the back of the car just as she was carefully pulling a compound bow from a hard plastic case.

"You shoot that?" he asked, skeptically.

She arched an eyebrow at him, "Try me."

"Daryl!" Merle's voice echoed through the trees. Daryl looked up from where he and his brunette companion had huddled together on a fallen log in a clearing. The two had walked the woods together, laughing and shooting at bright spots in the night until their arms were jelly and they'd lost half their arrows. And unlike the asshole from earlier, she actually could shoot worth a damn. It was colder here, away from the fire, but neither of them had suggested going back to the party. Now it sounded like the party was coming to them.

"I'm here!" Daryl called back.

She smiled up at him, unsure as the sound of boots stomping through wood grew louder.

"I ain't interrupting anything, am I?" Merle intoned as he emerged from the undergrowth. Another pair of men were along, behind him. Daryl had seen them before, but didn't know or care about them.

"Nah." Daryl was quick answer. He pulled away brusquely and rose to his feet.

"What's goin' on?"

"I brought somethin' for ya." Merle was strutting as he entered the clearing, arms conspicuously tucked behind his back.

He paused a beat in front of Daryl, letting the anticipation build before he revealed what he'd been hiding behind his back. He had the rifle Daryl had been fighting about earlier. There was blood on his knuckles.

"Surprise! Merry Christmas, Kid! From me to you."

Daryl's face relaxed into a smile of relief. He clasped his brother's free hand and clapped him on the back in a half-hug.

"Hell, yeah."

Their moment was interrupted by a high-strung female voice from behind him.

"What did you do to him?" she demanded, looking from Merle to Daryl and back again.

"Awww… don't you worry, little Darlin'. You worry too much!" Merle feigned diplomacy.

"It ain't like he's gonna be needing it. That boy's gonna have his hands all full up with re-learnin' his ABC's… workin' his way up to solid foods again."

Merle's smile was smug. Full of self-satisfaction of his entourage sniggered appreciatively behind him. Daryl chuckled along with them. Coming out here with her had distracted him from it, but he remembered the man's disrespect now, and how it had made him feel small and pathetic. He was glad he'd been vindicated.

"It's yours now, Daryl. Go ahead, give her a try."

"Don't you even want to know what they did to him? He's probably out there lying in a ditch somewhere, Daryl. You can't be okay with this! You just sat here for like an hour telling me how guns were for people with no imagination…"

"Nah, you don't feel bad about a damn thing, Daryl. What happened, he done that to hisself. Shoulda thought twice before he broke words with a Dixon. We take care of our own." Merle drawled, looking at his brother expectantly.

Daryl nodded resolutely, and they both understood that when he accepted the gun, he accepted all of it.

He took a step out and pointed the gun away from everyone, ready to calibrate the sights when he felt her move up behind him, grasping at him by the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"What are you doing? We need to get that guy some help." She hissed insistently.

"You need to get the fuck off of me." Daryl ground out icily. Never looking back as he felt her draw her hand back suddenly, as if she'd been bit. He just kept his target, fixated fully on a faintly fluttering leaf. One of the few clinging stubbornly to a dying oak.

"You're just like them, aren't you? Stupid redneck son of a bitch." She finished tremulously. She gathered up her bow and left, hurrying back to her truck while the men behind her hooted and laughed behind her.

"Aw, come on now! You ain't gotta go off like that." Merle called behind her, "Just give the men a minute to _talk_, Sugar Tits! **Then** you can get on the D…"

Wolf Daryl turned his head in disgust. She'd been so kind to him. He glanced wistfully at the tree line, and before he knew it he was trotting towards it.

"Where are you going?" Sophia demanded, close behind him.

"Away!" Daryl bit back.

"You can't just keep running away from everything that makes you feel!"

"Why not?" Daryl demanded, "What can I do about it now?"

"Live differently!" Sophia demanded, exasperated, "Learn from your mistakes. Stop being that guy that shuts people out because he's afraid!"

Daryl didn't answer, and he didn't stop.

"Daryl!" Sophia called again, and then she launched herself into him, sending them both sprawling into the dirt.

"No! Get off of me!"


	4. 3 - The Second of the Three Spirits

Daryl burst free from the tangled mass of fur and gulped for fresh air. He was grateful just to stay and breathe for several moments before he stopped to look around his surroundings, leading to the slow realization that he'd only ever been thrashing around with the tangle of sleeping bags and wool blankets he'd made up his bed from. He heaved them off to his side and wiped a palm down his clammy face, waiting for the ragged gasps of his breathing to slow.

Could that have been a dream? Everything had been so vivid, and precise. An exact telling of actual events from his own life. Was it even possible to have a dream like that? He didn't know. He shook his head and turned his eyes up to the ceiling. Maybe it was time to start allowing for the possibility that he may actually be losing his mind. He wouldn't be the first, and if that was really what was happening here, then... His disjoined train of thought was interrupted by the strong and rhythmic chiming of…bells?

Yes, that was the very distinct jingling of bells coming from not just outside, but **above** the guard tower. He flinched at the sound of scraping boots on the roof top and something that sounded like… hoof beats? Then a loud thump and the sound of footsteps.

He wiped at the cold sweat beading on his brow. This was ridiculous. There were still very real threats out there. Walkers, the Governor… threats they probably hadn't even met yet. He steeled himself, took up his crossbow, and leveled it with slow deliberation at his door.

"Merry Christmas!" a voice boomed directly behind him.

Daryl spun around wildly and loosed an arrow at the first thing he saw.

The first thing he saw was Dale.

Dale's iconic eyebrows furrowed in consternation as the arrow passed through him and bounced harmlessly off the security glass on the other side of the guard tower.

"I take it you're not impressed?" Dale asked. Aside from his perpetually-frazzled expression he looked just like every shopping mall Santa Claus Daryl had ever seen in his great red suit trimmed in white fur.

Daryl didn't answer, he just stared incredulous.

"I think it's great!" Dale announced.

"…mhmm" Daryl finally ground out, not so much a commentary on the ghost's appearance, or its garb, as on his own outlook on life in general at this particular moment.

Dale brushed aside Daryl's complaints airily with a wave of his hand.

"Son, I think it's time you and I went for a little walk."

"Figured if anyone around here had their fill of moonlight strolls it'd be you." Daryl deadpanned.

"You know, Daryl. You can't just let one bad experience make you gunshy for the rest of your life."

Daryl's eyes narrowed in disbelief, "You _died_."

"Everyone dies." Dale replied dismissively, "I **lived**."

"…what?"

"Come on, I'll show you." Dale replied. He plucked the red hat off the top of his head and held it out to Daryl emphatically.

Daryl sighed and snatched the flamboyant scrap of velour from Dale.

"Well…put it on." Dale goaded.

"I'm gettin' it, hold your damn horses." Daryl snapped as he struggled to find the opening and resignedly pulled it on.

"Well, surviving hasn't done a _thing _for your disposition, has it?"

Daryl barely registered the jab, too overwhelmed with processing the fact that the moment the festive hat had touched his head the room began to glow brighter and brighter until everything around him was a harsh white void. He squinted, closed his eyes against the brightness, raised his forearm to try and block it. Nothing seemed to help until he pressed the heels of his hands so hard against his eyelids that he saw stars.

"It's over, you can look now." Dale advised him, nudging him with a light elbow.

Daryl blinked, waiting for his eyes to re-focus. They weren't in the guard tower anymore. They'd been transported into the small prison library, which even he had to admit was looking festive with homemade candles flickering their warm yellow light over red and green paper cut outs of poinsettias and holly leaves.

"Nice. We're 20 yards away from where we were and now I'm blind. How 'bout next time we take the stairs?"

The room was abuzz, filled to capacity with small families, couples, and friends. The air crackled with excitement – Daryl couldn't help but wonder for what. These people did all realize Santa wouldn't be coming this year, or ever, right?

_And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof_

_The prancing and pawing of each little hoof_

_As I drew in my head, and was turning around_

_Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound_

Daryl turned towards the sound of Hershel's voice and found him seated comfortably at the head of the room in a sturdy upholstered chair with the book propped up in his lap. Behind him, propped up against the wall Maggie sat cuddled up against Glen in a nest of blankets and pillows. Her head was nestled into the crook of his arm, their arms entwined. She was maybe half-listening to the story. Eventually her gaze would wander up Glen's arm to his face, where she was continually delighted to find him looking back at her. They'd exchange bashful smiles. Then Maggie would tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and look over to her father again, and Glen would drop his head back against the wall and stare off into the distance – exhausted, but happy - until he felt Maggie's gaze come creeping back up his arm and they'd repeat the sentimental ritual.

Daryl glanced from the lovebirds over the Dale, who was quite possibly just as in love with Hershel's tired old Christmas story, and snorted derisively.

"What?" Dale asked, defensively.

"Good old Saint Nick, right? If he brings ya something, you're good. If he doesn't, ya ain't. Hell of a thing to tell kids growing up with nothing."

"Santa Claus isn't a perfect metaphor," Dale allowed, "but at its core, the legend of Saint Nicholas is about a man who inherited a fortune, and decided to give away every bit of it to help his fellow man. He knew _things_ won't ever make you happy, only people can. That's why what we celebrate. People, not things."

Dary's grunt was non-committal.

"You know, why don't you just hang around a while, Daryl. Get a feel for the room. Get comfortable. This is your home."

Daryl wondered if he was intentionally parroting Carol's words back at him to get his goat, or if it was just coincidence. There was no way to ask without giving himself up, so he crossed his arms and started a winding path through the waist high shelves.

There were some make-do craft tables set up for the children, and a handful of them were hard at work on mostly Christmas themed art. Bulgy, misshapen Santa Clauses, and reindeer, lopsided Christmas trees, and…

Daryl's eyes narrowed, then widened with surprise.

"Hey, that's me!" he called across the rows to Dale, "This one drew me!"

Dale strolled casually to Daryl's side. He peered at the page that Daryl was admiring, eyebrows furrowing in concentration.

"You sure?" He asked.

"What are ya, blind?" Daryl snapped.

"That's my hog." He explained, pointing to the black construct to the right of the man in the picture, recognizable if boxy, right down to the SS insignia on the gas tank.

"And that's the pile of walkers I done in."

There was a veritable mountain of walkers next to Daryl, dwarfing the man. Each head protruding from the pile had a comically oversized arrow, more to scale with a javelin, jutting out of it.

"Oh yeah… I see it now." Dale said, evasively, looking Daryl up and down.

"Looks like you've built up quite a reputation for yourself here." Dale observed.

"Just doin' what anyone would." He said, distractedly. He'd found Carl, relegated to the kids tables. He'd backed all the way up against a wall, and slumped over his hunting knife and whetstone. He glared around the room with open contempt. Then spat on the stone and dragged the knife along it listlessly.

"Where's Rick?" Daryl asked.

Dale shrugged.

"Let's go find out." He gestured for Daryl to lead the way out of library.

Carol and Rick looked small, standing there alone in the shadowed expanse of the prison's kitchen. The space was packed tight with sleek, stainless steel appliances that were useless without electricity or gas to power them; but after they'd cleaned out the spoiled food and scrubbed down the surfaces the massive commercial grade sinks, generous work surfaces, and storage space alone had made it key to more than tripling the prison's population in a day.

The sinks were full of dishes, but the work was progressing fast with the two of them working in tandem. Carol worked briskly, fishing dishes out of the murky water below the bubbles and scrubbing them clean - all the while chatting away enthusiastically. Rick's was a much more languid pace, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he rinsed the lather off the plates and toweled them dry. The personal storm he'd weathered was all spelled out in smallest details. There was an added frailty to his already long, lean frame. His skin had taken on a sallow cast under has ragged beard, and bruise colored hollows had formed beneath his eyes. Tonight though, the grim mask of Rick's face was relaxed while he listened to Carol's story. His old easy smile had found its way back. All the way up to his eyes.

"...they know whoever gets to hold the baby Jesus is the star of the whole production, so a fight breaks out. Of course the teacher is frantic by now, and she decides the main thing is just to just to keep the thing moving. Just keep pushin' 'em out there! So out come the three wise men, and the one on front is so frightened by all of the fighting, he freezes and just pees _everywhere_! The audience is starting to snicker because everyone can see this big dark stain spreading across the front of his little linen robe, and the next wise man is looking out into the crowd trying to figure out what everyone is laughing at, so he crashes crashes right into the first one, and both of them slip in the puddle and go crashing right into Mary, Joseph, the manger… everything! Baby Jesus is airborne…"

Rick shook his head at the absurdity, laughter bubbling up. Daryl couldn't remember the last time he'd heard the man laugh.

"When he hit the ground, his head snapped off. And everyone watched speechless as the decapitated baby Jesus's head slowly rolled over the stage and down all four of the steps."

Rick shook his head, glancing over at her with admiration, "Sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than any of my Christmas pageants." He admitted.

"Mhmm." Carol agreed, airily plucking a discarded bite of pumpkin pie off a plate and with her fingers and pushing it into her mouth. She flashed Rick that playful little smirk Daryl had previously thought was reserved for him. His stomach flip flopped a little with a feeling he was too stubborn to name jealousy.

"It's perfectly good pie." She justified facetiously around the mouthful, sweeping the last of the plates into the murky water and resting her back against the edge of the sink to give them a moment to soak.

"Nobody's judgin' here." Rick assured her in that genteel drawl that no one could even pretend to feel victimized by.

"The real magic of Christmas happens in the kitchen-" She began.

Rick's face scrunched up in clear disparity, and she trailed off looking at him with surprise, "Really? You don't think so?"

"Well… I know I've eaten some holiday creations that were less than inspired." Rick ventured.

Carol arched an eyebrow at him.

"Well…" he started, reluctantly, "I guess it was three years ago now? Lori was at home sick just before the holidays, and she told me she'd caught the last half of some cooking show where they were making a blue velvet cake? She didn't catch the whole segment, but she thought she'd gotten the gist of it…"

"Oh no…" Carol foreshadowed.

"Yeah…" Rick confirmed, "But god help me, I loved her. I loved her, and she had my ass out there fighting the crowds on Christmas Even at not one, not two, but _three_ stores to get enough blue food coloring for that damn cake."

Carol was already covering her mouth with her hand surreptitiously.

"And that cake went down in history as the worst thing she ever baked. My dad wouldn't stop calling it The Smurf Brick. And I felt so bad, I ended up eating three quarters of the damn thing myself to make her feel better because nobody with a sense of self-preservation would go anywhere near it."

Rick paused and looked hesitant for a moment and leaned in closer before divulging, "I don't know if you've ever eaten three bottles of blue food coloring… I don't want to get too graphic, but I can tell you, it stays with you."

He looked at her intently to really drive home his meaning, and all of Carol's attempts to maintain her composure unraveled. She fell to pieces, doubled over her side of the sink, helpless with laughter. And it was contagious. Rick's face split into a contented grin as he watched her struggle to compose herself.

"Rick, that's horrible. Poor Lori!" She gasped between giggles.

"Poor me!" Rick corrected, playing wounded. Carol took a deep calming breath and lighted a hand on his shoulder in mock sympathy.

"And after all that-" Rick began

"You got sick." Carol finished for him.

"Yes I-" Rick's face scrunched up, bemused, "how did you know? Yes, I got sick."

"It's the only reward I can think of that's cruel enough for such a selfless act."

He huffed gently, and the two of them eased back into companionable silence.

"This is amazing." She reflected, "Can you believe what we've done here? That we've come this far?"

"Today was a good day. This is what it's all been for." Rick agreed, flipping his dish towel over his shoulder and folding his arms contentedly to rest with her a moment.

"We never could have made it this far without you."

Rick shook his head, still reluctant to take due credit for coaxing them through a long season of nomadic traveling to find their way to this place where they could lay down roots and cobble together something like a life.

"This is what we can do when we come together. All of us."

She looked pensive for a moment, "Do you think we can get Carl out of his head long enough to-" she broke off her question and looked up as Judith's wailing echoed towards them from down the hall. The two of them turned in to the sound and Carol flashed Rick a sympathetic smile.

"I'm sorry." Beth apologized, looking overwhelmed as she let herself into the kitchen.

"I just can't get her to calm down, I've tried everything I know. She won't sleep and she still can't keep anything down. I can't think what else to do..."

"It's okay, Beth. I can take her." Rick assured her as he carefully accepted the baby and folded her in to his chest. Carol watched on silently, brows knit with concern as Judith continued to wail pitifully, even in Rick's arms.

"I can get my dad…" Beth offered.

Rick shook his head, "He saw her a few hours ago. Already done everything he could. I appreciate all of your help."

She nodded uncertainly, bouncing worried glances from Carol to Rick and back again before leaving the kitchen. Carol rested a reassuring hand on Rick's arm.

"We can push a bottle of electrolyte solution, try to keep her hydrated. I'll get it ready."

Rick nodded silently, clutching the little girl close as he lightly bounced her.

"What's going on?" Daryl asked Dale.

"She's getting sick." Dale replied somberly.

"Well, why ain't they said anything?" Daryl pressed.

"They're only just finding out." Dale mused, looking sadly over the two quietly fussing over the little girl, trying to get her to drink. The evening's levity wrung out of Rick's face again, and he stared beyond Judith into the wall looking eternally exhausted.

"This is how it starts."

"How what starts?" Daryl demanded. Dale didn't answer.

Daryl looked at Judith, screaming inconsolably, then back to Dale, "Well she's gonna be alright..?"

In his head he'd been confident in his statement, but now just found himself looking desperately to Dale for confirmation.

Dale still wasn't answering. His face was drawn, sick with whatever knowledge he was withholding. Daryl glowered at him impatiently, until Dale lowered his head.

"She's so little, isn't she? It's hard to lose a child that young. It's senseless. We're not equipped to deal with that. Babies are a blessing. They represent life, and hope, a future. Those are the things that keep us going, and we need that- that beacon. When that's extinguished, it gets harder and harder to see just what there is to keep going for."

"Asskicker isn't gonna die." Daryl barked over him.

"Well, it isn't even as benign as just that, is it? Death… isn't the end anymore. And what Rick will have to do then…"

"Don't." Daryl growled.

"He'll do it. That's just the kind of man he is, but I don't think he'll ever be okay. Not ever. Not after that."

"That's why you're gonna tell me what she needs. Food, medicine. I'll find it. I'll do what it takes. Try me!"

You'll try." Dale agreed solemnly.

Daryl sighed with frustration, "Shut up! Tell me what to get!"

No response.

Daryl lunged for Dale's lapels, nearly pitching forward from the momentum when he found no purchase there, "I'm talkin' to you!"

"I didn't peg you for a desperate son of a bitch."

Daryl gaped at Dale in disbelief.

"Why would you show me this, and not give me the chance to change it? She's just a baby!"

"A baby's just another mouth to feed. You're better off fending for yourself."

"Oh yeah? What about 'Let's just do what's right' you self-righteous bastard, huh? Tell you somethin', you got no business goin' around wearing that face, 'cause _that_ man? You ain't a _thing_ like him."

Dale studied Daryl solemnly, then reached up and reluctantly pulled the skewed hat off Daryl's head. Daryl was ready this time. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow as the brightness swallowed them up.

They stood a long time in silence. It was contemptuous from Daryl's side. From Dale's side, respectful. He cleared his throat softly before he finally dared to break it.

"You remember this place?"

"That night. This is where we found you."

"That's right, it is. You found something else here, too. You found yourself."

Daryl looked at Dale, guarded.

"Before this moment, you were done. You wanted to walk away rather than risk one more thing for these people. But then this happened, and everybody had to face it. They were all clamoring for Rick to do _something_, but not you. Not you, Daryl Dixon. You were the only one that could see Rick caving in under the weight of it. You saw true nobility. For the first time in your life, there was a good man you could look to. The kind of man willing to suffer and sacrifice to save us. And you chose to step up and share his burden, because you knew deep down, you're like that too.

Daryl didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. He just chewed his lip and stared at the ground. Was still starting at it, when the ground beneath them because to shake violently.

"Look out!" Daryl stumbled backwards as four arms jutted out of the ground, dragging two bodies behind them.

Dale rode out the tremors serenely as the docile corpses swayed listlessly on either side of him.

"They're with you?" Daryl asked, staring at the two

"They're with everyone." Dale replied cryptically.

Daryl squinted at the dirt caked figures beside Dale. Walkers never looked like anybody until they did. Once you let that happen it was easy to get turned around completely, looking for traces of people you'd known in savage monsters. This had never been a difficult concept for Daryl. His life had left him uniquely prepared for letting things go before he was ready. To the point where it had simply become easier to stop holding things close. He might not have even noticed, but for the little brass chain around her neck, with the wire swallow's nest charm dangling from it.

It was startling to have a detail of your childhood you'd given up for lost re-emerge so innocuously around the throat of a dead woman in a fever dream. Like maybe you'd been wrong about everything else as well too, and you were being paraded around some big cosmic joke.

And when he moved nose to nose with the man and studied the bones in his sinking face he was certain that if he lifted the tattered shirt he'd find a tattoo of a voluptuous black haired pin-up model with red rose between her teeth and a gun in her hand. Though maybe that joke was on him too. It didn't look like his old man's skin had held up to well.

"This is Apathy" Dale gestured to the twisted form of his dead father, "And Regret" he finished, trailing his arm to Daryl's mother's corpse.

Daryl flinched as he felt Dale's hands wrap around one of his and press the familiar hilt of a knife into it beseechingly.

"And that man, you aren't a thing like him, Daryl. You never will be, and you're not on trial for his sins. It's time to finish this."

Daryl clutched the knife and drove it harder than he'd intended between the eyes of his long dead father. Rather than dropping like a regular walker, the form began to disintegrate. He had turned the blade on his mother, but lowered it when he realized with horror that she had already begun to change. As his father's bones slivered and fragmented to be swept off on the breeze, she was rejuvenated. Her skin was transformed from stiff leather to glowing pink, and her eyes shone the same blue as his.

"My good boy..." She exhaled, and crumpled to the ground spent. And it was so much worse seeing her restored. So much more painful remembering the love he'd had for her and knowing she'd loved him to back as long as she'd lived, in spite of all of her shortcomings. His hand went slack, and the knife slipped into grass, forgotten. His face crumpled. He began to whimper unconsciously.

Dale stepped forward then, eyes wet with tears as well as he gathered Daryl up into his arms.

"What if I can't do it?" He hissed into Dale's shoulder, wretched with fear.

"What if I'm not good enough?"

"Shhh…" Dale consoled Daryl calmly while he wept. Held him steady, unperturbed while the seconds pooled into minutes. Maybe hours. His hand smoothed a calming track over the tattered wings on his Daryl's back, and Daryl noticed when it began dwindle, bit by bit, until it coalesced with an unseasonably warm rush of wind and disappeared altogether.

He knew Dale was gone then, but he still felt okay.

Stronger than before, and peaceful.

Ready to face the last of the revelations this night had in store for him.

Somewhere to the north, there came a scraping sound, followed by a light clang.


	5. 4 - The Last of the Spirits

Daryl began the short walk from what had once been the Greene family farm into the dense woodland that surrounded it on all sides.

The forest floor was soft, rich black soil carpeted with pine needles. This was where he shined. The place he should feel most at ease, but something was off. His boots should be gripping, sinking in to the soil, but he couldn't feel it. Everything seemed fake, like a low quality back drop that he'd been carelessly dropped into. The physical incongruence had triggered the alarm coursing through his bloodstream. Whatever had decided to haunt him had more tricks in store tonight.

"Hello?"

There was no answer, and the scraping didn't let up. It was a shovel, he realized. Somebody was out here digging. His hands fidgeted, fingers rubbing against his cool clammy palms. He wished now he'd take the time to pick the knife Dale had given him out of the overgrown tangle of grass. He knew it wouldn't help him out here on some nonexistent hallucinatory plane of sermonizing ghosts, but the reassuring weight of it would have done a hell of a lot for his nerves.

He could see someone now. An unremarkable man, tired and sweaty in a dingy flannel shirt and a ball cap. If he had noticed Daryl's approach, he didn't let on. He just kept to the steady pace of his shoveling, gouging and pitching like a human metronome.

He couldn't remember the name, but he remembered the man. Daryl had been primed to end him quick and brutal with a pick axe. Rick was the only thing that stopped him, holding him back from his base impulses like he always had in the beginning. In the end, they'd driven away and left him in the rear view to die slow, slumped at the base of a tree. Daryl had thought _that_ was unconscionable, but it was what the man had wanted. Or rather, it was what he'd asked for.

"Hey, man."

The man lifted his shovel for another go, but faltered in deference to the voice behind him. His hands wrung the warped wooden handle of the shovel as he hesitantly looked over his shoulder to meet Daryl's gaze.

"Why ya out here diggin'?"

The corners of the man's mouth turned up slightly in response to the question, more of a grimace than a sad smile. A silent postulation that the man standing in front of him couldn't comprehend the scope or the meaning of his function. The expression only served to accentuate how the melancholy that surrounded him, liquid heartache glimmering from his pacific brown eyes. He bowed his head, and drove his spade deep into the ground.

Daryl was struggling, trying to work up a different line of questioning when he felt the shadow swiftly rise and lengthen over him. His skin crawled at the new presence, already uncomfortably close by. He whipped around with a start to find that Christmas Future had come in the guise of Shane Walsh.

"All night long… I swear, not one of you clumsy sonsabitches coulda crept on me while you was alive. Best remember that!"

Shane's coal black eyes shone cold with amusement that did not reach the hard line of his mouth. He stood straight and tall, shifting the matte black shotgun slung over his shoulder more out of tedium than discomfort.

"So what now. What is this?" Daryl gestured impatiently to the man with the shovel.

Shane shook his head dismissively and gestured for Daryl to follow him. They'd only traveled about 20 yards before Shane stopped and pointed out a small patch of young bushes.

Daryl glanced over to Shane quizzically, but Shane's face held no answers. He simply stood there, devoid of expression waiting for Daryl to comply. Daryl lowered himself into a crouch. He reached out to grasp a section of the most exposed branches, scrutinizing the markings on the young wood.

"Somethin' been through here all right." He confirmed, "Whatever it is, it's hurt, stumblin'… been run ragged."

Shane took a few more steps and pointed again, this time to the ground just a few feet in front of them. Daryl dropped again. There was a clear set of fragmented footprints. Definitely a man. He studied the tracks a few moments longer than was strictly necessary, frowning. Something nagged at him as he looked over the patterned boot tread, but he didn't remark on it. He just straightened up and nodded to Shane.

He'd been set on a trail. It was pretty clear by now that he was intended to follow it. He tracked diligently, growing curious himself as to what exactly this was leading up to while Shane shadowed him impassively.

Daryl slowed at a small clearing. The bodies of three walkers lay on the ground.

"Looks like our guy was doin' okay until he gets here. Then all hell broke loose." He looked over the chaos of footprints, trying to recover some lead on the direction the original guy had headed, but it was useless.

"Prob'ly ran right into a herd the way he was bookin' it. Panicked. Took out a few, but there were too many. This is where he went down. Must've already turned."

Shane looked at him expectantly.

"You serious? I can't make nothin' out of this. Look at this mess… geeks been shamblin' all over this place. Trail's cold."

Shane disregarded Daryl and began moving ahead. Daryl sighed with exasperation and let Shane take over. Of course this thing posing as Shane didn't need him to track. Of course it had all been for show. Just another game, another riddle to make a fool of him. Daryl's jaw tightened as the two of them progressed further down this long winding path.

Shane stopped and held up his hand for Daryl to follow suit. There was a something, or someone shuffling through the moss ahead of them in the low light, oblivious to their approach. Daryl craned his neck and squinted to see in the low light.

The walker had a ragged applique on the back of its vest. Dirty, blood-spattered wings on black leather. It was hung up in a crossbow that hung ineffectually from a tangled strap hooked around its neck and under its arm. He looked to Shane for some kind of explanation. None of the other spirits had been able to stop prattling, but this apparition upheld its ominous silence, intent on watching the dead thing wind out a meandering path through the wood.

Abruptly, Daryl grabbed for the shotgun Shane wore slung over his shoulder. He had been prepped to have wrench it away, but the ghost never resisted. It readily released the weapon to Daryl, causing him to stumble back a few steps with the surplus momentum. He recovered, and stalked forward. The walker seemed to hear his advance and turned, interested towards the sound.

Daryl faltered. He hadn't been ready to be here, staring into his own lifeless face. There was a crimson void where something had bitten on a large chunk of his left cheek, and there were long ragged claw marks down the other side. His shirt was torn open, and most of the flesh there had been eaten away, leaving his breastbone and several of his ribs exposed. His eyes glistened hungrily, a bright opaque silver. Daryl took a deep shuddering breath and leveled the barrel at the space right between them.

Then he squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot cracked loudly in the still night air, and then… nothing. The bullet, like the gun, like the ghosts had no material substance. The walker moaned in agitation, and swiped at him. Daryl flinched, but its lunges passed through him, harmless.

"Bet you could have told me that, right?"

Daryl hurled the gun at Shane with every bit of fury he could muster. Shane caught the gun, graceful as you please and slid it back over his arm. Then he planted both feet a shoulder's width a part, hands clasped loosely in front of him.

"What the hell good are you? What are you even here for?"

Shane tilted his head and watched Daryl froth and rage, unaffected.

"Ain't you had a hand in ruining enough lives yet? Had to come back for one more?!"

Shane shushed him. Once he was still he was still he realized there was a faint sound of rustling in the trees. Something was coming.

The ghost pointed in the direction the movement was coming from, and Daryl watched anxiously until he saw Tyreese materialize out of the darkness. He raised a hunting rifle directly at Daryl, and looked through the scope. Then the gun lowered until Daryl could see the defeat in the big, kind man's face. He turned back towards where he'd come and held up a hand, signaling a stop.

"He's here… up ahead. They got him."

"What?"

He could heard the strains of disbelief bordering on desperation in Carol's voice as she came bursting through the trees. Tyreese's size was impossible to overcome. He simply took a step in front of her, and let her crash into his chest. He held his arms out at a respectful distance, ready to stop her if needed. She didn't make him. Rick was close behind, and when he laid a hand on Carol's shoulder. She turned to him, eyes wide and bright with tears, and he lowered his head and shook it, his way of expressing he couldn't understand how this could have happened either.

Walker Daryl was noticing the commotion behind it now, and it began to turn around.

"No! No no no no no… Hey!" Daryl's panic spilled out of him as he tried regain the walker's attention and keep it from going towards his friends.

Rick lowered his hand then, confident that Carol wasn't about to bolt. He took a deep breath, and steadied his grip on the crowbar he carried with him. He started forward, but Carol stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I can't let you…"

She trailed off and cleared her throat, seeking out his eyes.

"I need to do this."

Rick looked back at her, searching his face until he'd accepted there was no give in it. He nodded, and stepped back.

"Fuck that, don't let her come out here alone! RICK! Come on!" Daryl shouted at the scene in front of him, realizing that nobody would hear it but still needing to vent his frustration. He had lost the battle for his walker's attention. It was turning towards the group now and there wasn't a damn thing Daryl could do to stop it.

Carol cautiously stepped out into the clearing, alone.

Daryl's corpse growled, and took a few unsteady steps in her direction.

"So this is it, then?" she asked it flatly as to came for her.

Daryl tensed, eyes darting from the walker to Carol and back again as the gap between them rapidly closed.

"Carol, be careful." He hissed.

"You feel like you proved something now, coming out here all on your own?"

She trailed off at the end, so quiet that Daryl almost missed it, "Stupid…"

The walker was almost on her now, and she shoved it roughly. Its ankle caught on a root and without the use of both arms to steady itself it topped over onto its back.

She stood over his corpse, flailing to right itself on the ground.

"I needed you." Her words soft enough so as only to be for herself, but Daryl heard them.

"and you needed us too, but you were so proud… so proud that you're dead. And now I'm all alone."

Carol's voice broke pitifully on the last syllable, and Daryl's heart wrenched at the sound of it. She lifted the pick axe resting by her side and brought it down on Daryl's head, felling him for good.

She lost her grip on the handle then, let it slip indifferently to the ground and drew her bloody hand to her mouth. Her body heaved with silent sobs. Daryl moved to gather her up into his arms, but he only moved through her while she sank to the ground. It was Rick that finally walked forward and lift her up into a tight embrace while the others watched with due respect.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered earnestly against her temple as she buried her face deep in his shirt.

They held each other, Ricks eyes bloodshot and rimmed in red settled on Daryl's body over Carol's shoulder. His tears fell silently.

Daryl's mind raced, thoughts and memories overlapping in a blur as his gaze lowered to the ground. He stared hard at the mangled, twisted ruin of his own corpse and he hated it. _You deserve better. _Hated himself for allowing it to happen here, in front of his family. _You're a decent man. To_ his family. _I know what you did for me. _Profoundly good and true people that had managed to come together and bolster each other at the end of the world, when everything was truly at its worst. _I'm sorry about your mom._ All of them had seen beyond where he'd come from, where he'd been when he'd met them. _I'm glad you came back. _They'd seen everything he could be. _Look at how far you've come. _And they weren't afraid to invest in the goodness of others. _My family is standing right here, and you're a part of that family._

Except him. He'd been afraid.

Nearby movement startled Daryl out of his trance. Carol had put a hand to Rick's chest. She pushed him back and shook her head, wiping at her tear-streaked eyes resolutely.

"No, it's okay. I'm okay. There isn't time for this. We need to get you back to your little girl. We need to be there for the living."

Their eyes locked, and Daryl caught the grave understanding shared there. Rick nodded at her in silent thanks.

"Someone should take the crossbow." Carol said neutrally to no one in particular as she turned to walk back in the direction they'd come.

Glenn and Tyreese shared a look of lingering discomfort before Tyreese broke it to look back at the dead man's body. Glen took the chance to catch up with Carol and Rick leaving Tyreese with the dirty job at hand. Tyreese sighed and quickly picked out a path Daryl's body.

"Sorry, man… every little bit helps. You understand…" He said by way of apology, as he gingerly wound the weapon off Daryl's body. He slung it over his shoulder and hurried to catch up with the group.

Daryl sat in silence with Shane for a moment, taking in everything that had just unfolded. He pressed his face into his hands and groaned.

"I fucked it all up. Everything. So bad. Take me back so I can fix this."

Shane shrugged, stiffly. Then he dispersed into a fine grey mist and disappeared.

"Man, you always were such an asshole…"

Daryl started walking. He'd only made it a few steps before he heard a groaning behind him. He snorted, unafraid.

"Sorry, boys. Dixon's not on the menu."

The walker continued ambling towards him, and Daryl felt a hand close tight on the back of his vest.

"What the…?"

He jumped and reeled forward, spinning around to see just what the hell was behind him.

The walker was Carol, exactly as she'd been only moments ago, but her skin had gone sickly waxen and her eyes… Her perfect blue eyes were gone. Now they glowed bright yellow shot through with red in the moonlight. Dead. Undead.

"No, get off! It ain't gonna end like this!"

She growled and reached for him again. There was crashing in the trees. Daryl's neck darted sideways and he broke out into a run when he saw more walkers spilling from the trees. Rick, Carl, Glen, Maggie, Beth, Hershel, even Michonne. They were all there, and they were gaining on him. Grouping in with Carol they formed a pack behind her. They moved faster than any walkers.

He shouted for Sophia, Dale, even Shane. Suddenly the ground gave way beneath him and he was falling. He hit the ground with a grunt, and looked up to find he'd stumbled into the grave Jim had been digging.

Daryl screamed hoarsely as one by one the corpses appeared at the edge of the pit below dropped down on top of him, tearing away at his flesh with their claws and wicked blunt edged teeth.

"No!"


End file.
